A Question of Numbers

by Andrea Penrose

  The butler entered with the minister’s breakfast, followed a moment later by a breathless Thomas, who handed Arianna a small leatherbound volume.

  She waited until both servants had withdrawn before opening the book and paging to the right spot.

  Sophia ceased her fidgeting. The minister stilled his fingers.

  Damnation.

  She read it over again before looking up. “I’m sorry. If there’s some message in the text, aside from ‘The whole world is a stage, and all the men and women merely players,’ I can’t decipher it.”

  The statement elicited a grim silence, and yet Arianna couldn’t help hearing a whisper of reproach swirl through the air.

  What am I missing? She read over the scene again.

  Sophia cleared her throat. “Jacques—Grunwald specifically mentions Jacques, one of the main characters in the play. So perhaps it requires piecing together words from his lines, or . . .”

  Grentham’s mouth tightened to a mocking grimace.

  “Or some other combination. There are seven letters in the word ‘Jacques’—perhaps you need to choose the seventh letter from each of Jacques’s sentences in the seventh scene to construct a message.”

  “And perhaps a spun sugar unicorn will simply dip its horn in magical ink and write it out for us,” growled the minister.

  An angry red flush ridged Sophia’s cheekbones. “If you haven’t anything constructive to say, I suggest you bite your tongue, sir.”

  “If you feel such speculations are constructive, then by all means indulge yourself,” he retorted. “I prefer not to waste my time on flights of fancy.”

  “Just because I’m not as experienced as Lady Saybrook in espionage doesn’t mean I’m incapable of solving a conundrum. I have read several books on codebreaking—”

  “Miss Kirtland’s suggestions were quite reasonable, and based on traditional cipher systems,” murmured Saybrook.

  “Systems always sound so neat and orderly in theory,” responded the minister. “But the real world rarely proves so tidy.”

  “Let us not brangle among ourselves,” said Arianna, seeking to keep the meeting from turning ugly. “We’re facing a lethal enemy, whose motives are unknown, and that makes him—or rather them—all the more dangerous.”

  Sophia released a pent-up breath and slumped back in her chair.

  “I need to think more about what Grunwald might have meant by his message,” went on Arianna. “I’m certain a message is there. I just have to see it.” Her gaze strayed to the breakfast tray brought in by the butler. “Your eggs are getting cold, Lord Grentham.”

  The minister picked up his fork and wolfed down a few bites. “Is there anything else you have to show me?”

  Saybrook extracted a small object wrapped in in a piece of felt from his waistcoat pocket. He hesitated for a moment, as if loath to pass it over, then forced his fingers to unclench, and held out his palm.

  “Bloody hell, must we have more theatrics?” muttered Grentham. He washed down the last of his shirred eggs with a gulp of coffee.

  “This was clipped to the watchchain, and I suspect it was hidden by the bulk of the pocketwatch,” said the earl as Grentham reached out to take the object. “Which is likely why the assassin missed it.”

  Arianna watched as the scrap of fabric was peeled away, revealing a gold signet ring. The wink of light set off a flicker of foreboding, as did the shuttered look in Saybrook’s eyes.

  Grentham held it up and examined it from several angles. His expression didn’t alter, but as he caught sight of the engraving, the color of his face turned from ash-gray to ghost-white.

  He recovered his composure in an instant. Setting the ring back on the felt, he rewrapped it and tucked it into his pocket.

  “Thank you for breakfast.” He calmly speared the last morsel of ham on his plate and polished it off before getting to his feet. “If you’ve no more evidence to feed me, I have other pressing matters to address.”

  Saybrook shook his head.

  The minister turned on his heel. His steps echoed loud as gunfire as he crossed the parquet floor and was quickly swallowed in the shadows of the corridor.

  “What was engraved on the ring?” asked Arianna.

  “Three lions rampant—like the ones on the royal coat of arms of Great Britain.”

  “Dear God in heaven,” she whispered.

  “W-what does that mean?” asked Sophia.

  “It means,” said the earl with grim resignation, “that Arianna and I will be going to Brussels after all.”

  Chapter 6

  The statement hung heavy in the air. Arianna felt it slowly coil around her, squeezing the oxygen from her lungs.

  “I don’t understand,” whispered Sophia.

  She forced herself to breath. “The ring belongs to a friend we thought was killed in an explosion at sea.”

  “He may well be dead,” added Saybrook. “But this raises doubts as to whether he might have survived.”

  “And if he’s alive, we must find him.” Arianna closed her eyes for an instant. “He risked his life for us, and for our country, during our mission on Elba.”

  “I see.” Sophia fisted her hands in her lap as recognition dawned on her face. “You’re speaking of Mr. Pierson, the man . . .” Her words seemed to catch in her throat.

  “The man Grentham dispatched to make sure we didn’t forget the government’s objectives amid our own personal concerns,” finished Arianna. “Yes. That is the man of whom we speak. Pierson was—or dare I hope, is—the minister’s most trusted operative.”

  “Assuming Grentham trusts anyone,” murmured Saybrook.

  She thought back to the night several weeks ago, when they had first informed Grentham of his operative’s death. He has tried to appear unmoved, but a flicker in his eyes had betrayed a hint of emotion. “You’re right, I doubt the minister allows himself the luxury of believing in loyalty. However, I think this case is an exception. Trust, respect, friendship—call it what you will, but there is a bond between the two men that transcends payment for services.”

  “Much as I’d like to say something sarcastic, I have to agree,” admitted Saybrook. He looked at her and released a sigh. “I, too, saw his face just now.”

  “You think Mr. Pierson is being held prisoner by the French?” asked Sophia. “For what reason, I wonder?”

  “I’ve no idea what to think,” answered the earl grimly. “Right now, there are a myriad of questions, and they’re so bloody tangled together that they form a Gordian Knot.”

  “And the only way to cut through it and find the answers we need is to journey to Brussels.” Arianna rose. “I had better inform Bianca and José that they should begin packing our trunks.”

  “Well, this is a surprise,” said Constantina.

  Arianna had decided to pay a call on the dowager later that morning to inform her that she and the earl would be traveling to Brussels.

  Clearing her throat, Constantina took a moment to polish her quizzing glass before lifting it to her eye and continuing. “I thought you two were adamant about not getting involved in political intrigue.” An owlish stare accentuated the sapphirine glitter of the magnified orb. Age had not diminished its sharpness. “I understood your recent journey to Elba, which involved Sandro’s cousin. But this doesn’t have to do with family.”

  “But it does have to do with friendship,” replied Arianna. “A special bond is not forged by blood alone.”

  “Hmmph.” The dowager tucked the glass back into her bodice. “Then I suppose there’s no point wasting my breath in trying to change your mind. I know how dear the concept of loyalty is to your heart.”

  “A weakness, I know,” murmured Arianna as Constantina passed her a cup of tea.

  “I didn’t say that.” A smile tugged at the dowager’s mouth. “I like to think I’m not a hypocrite.”

  “I don’t think anyone acquainted with you would ever accuse you of being a hypocrite.”

  “No,
merely of being a stubborn, outspoken, opinionated old dragon, with more hair than wit.”

  “You exaggerate.” Arianna took a sip of her tea. “But not by much.”

  “Is that so?” Constantina’s eyes narrowed in satisfaction. “Excellent—I should hate to think I’m losing my fire in my old age.”

  “Never fear,” she replied. “Your reputation still strikes terror in all but the stoutest hearts of the ton.”

  Constantina helped herself to one of the chocolate pastries Arianna had brought with her. “Speaking of loyalty to family and friends, I, too, have an announcement to make.”

  Arianna set down her cup. The day was proving full of unexpected surprises. “This one, I hope, doesn’t involve a dead body.”

  “Not if I can help it.” The dowager brushed a crumb from her lips. “I had already made the decision to accompany Gerard to Brussels before you came. At my age, I don’t give a fig for what the tattlemongers whisper, but I was concerned about how to stifle any nasty gossip about our relationship so as not to embarrass Charles during this time of sensitive political negotiations. However, you’ve solved the dilemma. I can now say I’ve chosen to travel with my family, in order to offer solace and support to my dear French friends who’ve been forced to flee Napoleon.”

  She smiled. “Which will allow us to kill two birds with one stone.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. But you can’t go in there,” said the adjutant on duty in the outer office.

  Ignoring the command, Saybrook brushed past him and entered the minister’s private office. “He can have me shot if he likes.”

  Grentham looked up from the papers he was reading, a scowl deepening the lines of fatigue etched around his mouth. He was seated at his desk, his injured arm lying awkwardly against his chest. “Do you never obey orders?”

  “On occasion.” The earl shut the door behind him. “But only when they make sense.”

  “Spare me the holier-than-thou platitudes. I’m busy.”

  “I don’t plan to take up much of your time. I’ve just a single question to ask.” He perched a hip on the corner of the desk. “Did you know that Pierson might be alive and were you keeping the information from me and my wife?”

  Grentham’s nostrils flared as he drew in a measured breath. “I wouldn’t last very long in my position if I were in the habit of sharing secrets. You know as well as I do that sentiment has no place in the sordid world of intrigue and innuendo.” The minister pinched at the bridge of his nose. “But in this case, I’ll make an exception. The answer is no, none of the inquiries I set in motion—and be assured I made a number of them—discovered any reason to believe that Pierson survived the explosion.”

  “Thank you for that.” Saybrook shifted his position. “I’m relieved I don’t have to thrash you to a pulp. It would have been unsporting to do so when you’re hampered by an injury.”

  “Had we come to blows,” retorted Grentham, “I wouldn’t have been fighting by sporting rules.”

  The earl smiled. “Nor would I.”

  “Now that we’ve finished with the display of schoolboy bravado, might I get back to work?”

  “In a moment.” Saybrook’s expression turned deadly serious. “The ring’s appearance is unsettling. Why did Grunwald have it? And why was he bringing it to my wife?”

  “Those are, I assume, rhetorical questions,” replied the minister. “At this moment, I can do naught but make wild conjectures as to the answers. And such efforts are a waste of time.”

  “Do you think he’s alive?”

  The minister smoothed a crease from the sleeve of his injured arm. “Possibly.”

  “Then let’s assume he’s a captive. Would the French know he’s not a mere underling, hired to perform a dangerous job, but rather a key operative of British intelligence?”

  A flutter of silence. “Probably.”

  “Bloody hell, must I use a scalpel to extract information?” muttered the earl. He leaned in closer. “If they know who he is, why haven’t you received any sort of demand to exchange assets? We must be holding people who Napoleon would dearly love to have back.”

  “I would imagine that if the French have him, they are holding him as a bargaining chip.” A pause. “I certainly would. The real game of power is about to begin in earnest.”

  Their gazes locked.

  “Are you saying that Pierson knows vital information?” demanded Saybrook. “Information that would deal a grievous blow to our efforts to beat Napoleon if it fell in French hands?”

  Grentham didn’t answer.

  The earl muttered an oath. “My sense is that Pierson won’t crack under interrogation, no matter how extreme.”

  “Any man, no matter how tough, can be made to crack,” replied the minister. “It’s simply a matter of applying the right pressure.”

  Saybrook slowly rose and leaned over to brace his palms on the desk. “What is it you’re not telling me?”

  Arianna couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “Two birds with one stone?” she repeated. “I fear you have an even more devious mind than I do. What is it you’re planning?”

  “To gather the information that will help us beat Napoleon.” Constantina gave an airy wave. “Brussels will be a viper’s nest of spies and informants. Men think themselves very clever in ferreting out secrets from the swirl of smoke and brandy and lies. However they tend to use such primitive means—knives, threats, blackmail . . .”

  The dowager paused for another bite of her pastry. “But we both know the most important revelations can be found among the tea and cakes of a drawing room social call, or amid the pomp and splendor of a ballroom.”

  As always, the dowager’s observations were sharp as a tack.

  “Ladies do love to gossip,” agreed Arianna. “And aren’t averse to sharing confidences they’ve heard from their husbands or lovers, if asked in the right way.”

  Constantina gave an evil grin. “My point precisely.” She fluffed out her skirts. “And men assume we are featherbrained widgeons, and so can be coaxed to say more than they should. I’m looking forward to using such buffleheaded thinking against them.”

  “As am I,” murmured Arianna, though she was under no illusion that the task would be easy. In her recent battle of wits with Napoleon, she had been lucky that he had underestimated her skills at subterfuge.

  He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

  “But you mustn’t ever forget that these are very perilous times,” she added. “The fate of nations depends on what happens during the next few months. Danger will be lurking in every nook and cranny of Brussels, even where we least expect it. So it’s imperative that we never let down our guard.”

  All trace of humor squeezed from the dowager’s face. “I’m old enough to know the old adage, ‘pride cometh before a fall’ has more than a grain of truth to it.”

  It was true—hubris is a two-edged sword.

  A brusque cough interrupted Arianna’s musings. “I couldn’t help but notice that Percival didn’t look at all himself this morning. Should I be worried about him?”

  “Lord Grentham is under a great deal of duress,” she replied carefully. “But he’s resourceful and capable of looking out for himself.”

  Perhaps it was the mention of hidden dangers that had her in a brooding mood, for she found herself adding, “His is a thankless job. He goes through hell to keep our country from falling into chaos, and when —against great odds—he succeeds, no one notices or gives thanks. But when, despite his best efforts, Trouble strikes, suddenly everyone is waving the proverbial knife and clamoring for his head on a platter.”

  “I know you and Sandro have been at daggers drawn with Percival in the past—and with good reason, I might add. But I’m glad to hear you’re coming to understand that the world he’s chosen to be part of demands that he make very difficult decisions.” Constantina expelled a sigh. “Alas, Life can rarely be painted in the stark hues of black and white.”

  “We must,” said Aria
nna, “simply do our best to keep the light from being snuffed out by the darkness.”

  They sat for several moments in silence, watching shadows flit through the ivy outside the window as a breeze ruffled through the leaves.

  “Hmmph. Why wait for Brussels?” Steeling her spine, the dowager sat up straighter. “I say we begin putting our plan in motion tonight. Most of the foreign delegations will be attending the Countess of Southport’s gala ball. There will be ample opportunity for engaging the gentlemen in convivial conversation.”

  “And dancing,” added Arianna. “What with all the spins and twirls, it’s likely their tongues will make a slip.”

  “There’s nothing you need to know,” responded Grentham. “I’ll be leaving for Brussels on the morrow to deal with the complications.”

  “And likely stepping right into a trap,” replied Saybrook. “Our adversaries are just as adept as you are at weaving webs of intrigue. On your own, you’ll be hard-pressed to avoid becoming hopelessly tangled in the strands.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “That you let me and my wife help.”

  The minister reshuffled the papers on his desk. “You told me that on no account would the two of you consider going to Brussels.”

  “Circumstances have changed. And so has our thinking.” The earl shrugged. “As you know, Arianna and I are no strangers to improvising.”

  “And most of the time, I wish to consign you to the hottest pit of Hell because of it.” Grentham hesitated. “But in this case . . .”

  A smile flitted over Saybrook’s face. “Go ahead and say it—it won’t choke you to admit that you could use our skills—and our unquestioned loyalty to King and country.” A pause. “When one is watching for attack from all angles, it’s useful not to need eyes in the back of one’s head.”

  “No doubt there is some creature from Greek mythology so endowed,” muttered the minister. “But I can’t seem to remember its name.”

  “However ungracious, I’ll take that as an acceptance of my offer.” The earl shifted one of the side chairs closer to the desk. “Now, what the devil is Pierson’s weakness?”